


Just One Fix

by Bloodsong



Category: The Fix - Rowe/Dempsey
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Drug Use, Drugs, Incest, M/M, Physical Disability, Sex for Favors, Uncle/Nephew Incest, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-15 00:22:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5764600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bloodsong/pseuds/Bloodsong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Up-and-coming political candidate Calvin Chandler has a nasty drug habit.  After a forcible purge by his controlling mother, Cal needs a fix.  His equally controlling uncle has something he needs, but does Cal have something Grahame needs, that he can trade?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just One Fix

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note:
> 
> This is inspired by the original cast recording of "The Fix," a British musical about American politics, and accompanying sordid scandals, sex, drugs, alcoholism, you name it. The particular song I got fixated on is "The Upper Hand." The scene concerns a strung-out Calvin Chandler trying to use sexual favors to get drugs from his uncle. The thing is, I couldn't reconcile the lyrics of the song with the direction of the scene. So... this is me trying to work through how I think it would go.
> 
> Props to the Ministry fans! \m/
> 
> Props to apiphile (http://archiveofourown.org/users/apiphile/pseuds/apiphile), without whom this fandom tag wouldn't exist, and I probably wouldn't have gone ahead and posted this anywhere.

 

  
  
     Cal's hands scrabbled through the drawers and over the shelves of the library.  She couldn't have found _everything_.  One needle, carelessly disposed of, and Mother had freaked, gone on a crusade to purge the estate of every last little pill and packet.  Her 'boy,' no matter that he was a full grown man, treated like a child -- locked in his room, his 'toys' taken away.

     He'd stopped vomiting and sweating, enough that he could stand, could walk, could pass for sober for just a few minutes.  Enough to go get a shower.  Enough to escape from the bathroom, slip downstairs, and make his way to the north wing.

     They could _not_ have tossed the whole house.  Not every single book in the damned library.  Cal's shaking hands clawed at them, desperate to find something to ease his pain.  _Just one fix.  One Fix One Fix One Fix One Fix...._

     "Looking for this?"

     Cal whirled.  The desperation in his head had been so loud, he hadn't heard the low purr of the wheelchair's motor.  His uncle held a nickel bag tantalizingly loose between index and middle fingers.  Grahame's head was cocked, as if observing some interesting insect.  "There will be no more of this," he said, making the bag disappear into his fist.  "Election year is almost upon us; this is no time for pissing around.  Your mother wants you sober for the debate."

     "I'll _be_ sober for the debate, but just not now!"

     Cal's voice was hard, desperate.  He took a step forward and Grahame realized his mistake.  Grahame might have been a tall, handsome man, if his bout with Polio hadn't left his legs stunted and twisted, diminishing his height, his desirability.  Now an invalid, he would be helpless.  Cal could march right over and wrest the drugs from him.

     No.  Grahame tightened his fist.  He was _not_ weak.  Decades on those damned crutches gave him superior upper body strength.

     Then he saw Cal's eyes dart to the bag, the tip of his tongue touch his lips.  It took a moment for the boy to drag them back to meet his.  That's when Grahame realized -- Cal would never directly oppose him  He and Violet had trained him too well.  These drugs in his hand would be just another way to control him.  He relaxed.

     Cal licked his dry lips again.  "Please, try to see it from my perspective," he beseeched his uncle.  "It helps."

     Uncle Grahame was still watching him in that scholarly manner.  At least he was listening.  Maybe Cal could get through to him.

     "It makes me feel alive.  Sharper.  It gives me focus."  He took another hesitant step.  "I'll do anything you want.  Haven't I always done everything you and Mother have asked of me?"

     Cal's stomach clenched, whether form hunger, more nausea, or just from his emotional state, it was impossible to tell.  He put a hand inside his robe in an attempt to soothe it.

     That's when he saw his uncle's eyes drop.  They traced the sliver of skin down to where it disappeared behind the belt that held the robe closed at his waist.  They darted up a moment later, while his tongue lingered over moistened lips.  And Cal knew how to get what he wanted.

     Whenever his mother had wanted something from Uncle Grahame, she had sent her little boy.  Ask your uncle for this, ask your uncle for that.  With the flash of a smile and a twinkle of an eye, Cal could wheedle a lot of things from his dear old Uncle Grahame.  His uncle would smile fondly and tousle his hair, or give his backside a friendly smack.  Cal found it awkward in his teen years, but soon enough he'd gone off to college and saw his uncle only rarely.

     Then Uncle Grahame had become his campaign manager, and his mother insisted they were sunk without his smarts, his political savvy.  So go talk to him, Cal; calm him down, Cal; do whatever it takes to keep him here, keep him happy.  His own mother, dangling his ass in front of her late husband's brother.  She'd taught him well.

     "It helps me keep, shall we say, 'the upper hand'?"  Cal slid his hand upward, causing the robe to part just a little bit more.  He rested it over his heart.  "It burns like a fire, right here."  He clutched his pectoral provocatively and was rewarded by the distinct bob of his uncle's Adam's apple.  Cal glided forward.

     Grahame could see the ploy of his own words turned upon him.  He should have been stronger against them, but the flesh was weak.  He swallowed, eyes closed.  When he opened them, Cal stood over him.  Grahame looked up into those blue eyes, so deep, so beautiful.  So much like Reed's eyes had been.

     But where Reed's eyes had only ever been filled with arrogance and contempt, Cal's held humility.  Grahame could not look away as the boy slowly sank to his knees before him, one hand holding steady on Grahame's leg.

     "Uncle Grahame, I _need_ it," Cal pleaded, drawing out the word as his hand slid up the inside of Grahame's thigh.

     His breath caught in his throat.  The baggie in his hand grew slick with sweat from his palm.  Still Cal's soulful eyes held him locked, frozen.

     "Have you ever needed anything so badly, that it burned inside you?"  Cal's hand rode further up his leg, driving wildfire before it, until the heat pooled in his loins.  Then that hand was on him, _there_ , palming the growing bulge in his trousers.  "A fire so hot," Cal breathed, "you would do _anything_ to quench it."

     Grahame turned his head away.  "Yes," he said.  _No!_   He'd meant to say _no_ , but his traitorous tongue had slipped from his control.  Just like his shaft, just like most of his body.

     He couldn't move, couldn't think, even as Cal plucked at his clothes, taking his 'yes' as permission, as confession.  Then the boy's mouth was on him, and self control faded to complete insignificance.

     Cal's mouth was so warm, so wet, so _alive_.  Grahame's head lolled back; his eyes half closed.  His breath escaped his lips in a soft sigh.  He was so undone by such a simple thing.  Then he had to see, to look upon that soft golden hair, that angelic beauty.  He put his hand to Cal's shoulder, squeezed....  Then, fortifying himself, he pushed his nephew away.

     Cal let his cock slip free and raised his eyes.  He licked his lips, still glistening from his ministrations.  "Is something wrong, Uncle Grahame?"

     "I want more."

     "Yes...."  The question mark was a faint exhalation.

     "I want it all."

     Now Cal lowered his eyes.  "Yes," he said in submission.

     A shiver of excitement went through Grahame's body.  So many dreams... the forbidden fruit now lowered into his hands.

     Then Cal suddenly stood up.  He bounced from foot to foot, the jittering junkie back once more.  "Give me the smack."  He thrust out his hand for it.

     Grahame snorted.  "No payment until after services are rendered."

     "Please."  Blue eyes flashed to him, revealing desperation.  "It will help.  You'll see.  I promise."

     Grahame narrowed his eyes, but he didn't think Cal could pull off a ploy like this.  He sensed the fish trying to wriggle off the hook.  "Very well."  He held out the bag, but flicked it out of Cal's eager grasp.  "You disappear with this, it's the last you'll ever see," he threatened.

     Cal nodded, his whole body practically twitching with his need for the drugs.  he snatched the bag and turned away, eager to open it.

     "Not here," Grahame snapped at him, trying to tuck himself back into his pants.  "Come to my room."

     He piloted the chair back out into the hall, grimly contemplating how the hell he would explain any of this if a guard saw them.  _The Great Mastermind_ , he chided himself bitterly.  If he had any brains left, he wouldn't be doing this at all.

     It would be smarter to go to Cal's room.  Or, actually, to an empty guest room in the west wing, far from the prying eyes of the estate's help.  But all those rooms were upstairs.  Grahame had never gotten along well with stairways, and now with the wheelchair, they were impossible.

     His suite on the ground floor of the north wing would have to do to conceal their sins.  
  
  


 

  
     Cal retreated into the bathroom to perform his ritual of self abuse.  Grahame, for his part, set about getting into bed, a chore he performed every night.  It seemed more difficult on this particular occasion.  His hands, normally rock steady, shook so badly he had to abort his transfer from the chair to the bed a few times.  He feared tumbling to a heap on the floor.

     Even unbuttoning his shirt gave him trouble.  He stopped midway and massaged his hands, one with the other, wondering what had gotten into them.  The same frisson running through the rest of his body, obviously.  Excitement.

     He continued removing his clothes, tugging shoes and socks -- mere adornments in his case -- and trousers from his legs.  At least he no longer had to deal with the damned braces.  His consignment to the chair had made them superfluous.

     Finally, all his clothes lay neatly at the foot of his bed, and the chill of the air settled across his skin.  Shouldn't Cal have finished by now?  Grahame hoped the boy hadn't passed out in there.  That's all they would need.  He twisted where he sat to look towards the bathroom.

    Only a few moments later, the door opened and Cal appeared, still in his robe.  His hair was out of place, sexily tousled, and his eyes were darker, beginning to cloud with his high.

     He stepped out of the doorway and let the robe fall open and slide down from his shoulders.  No, he wore nothing beneath.  Grahame's mouth went dry.

     No one could say Cal was in shape, but his stint in the military had put muscle on him, and his stint with drugs had suppressed his appetite and kept him skinny.  He certainly put Grahame's doughy skin and sagging paunch to shame.

     The robe remained caught in the crook of Cal's elbows.  Then he turned around.  With one hip cocked and a coquettish look tossed over his shoulder, he straightened his arms and let the robe slide down to reveal _that ass_.

     Grahame swallowed thickly.  His eyes continued down, over the thick trunks of Cal's thighs, the rounded swell of his calves.  Beautiful.  Heat flowed within his groin.  "Come here."

     Cal disentangled himself from the robe with only a slight wobble.  He came over and settled on the bed beside his uncle, one leg tucked up under him.  Grahame pulled him in close and kissed him.

     For a few beats, Cal didn't respond, but his uncle and mother had trained him well, to cater to his clients' desires, and he started kissing back.  Grahame's hands roamed his body, and Cal mirrored his actions.

     The fire rose in Grahame's belly.  He needed this more than anything in his life.  He broke off, panting slightly, to work on getting the rest of the way into bed.  He lifted himself to scoot back, with a modicum of aid from his weak thighs.  But there was no way to get his legs onto the mattress short of bodily hauling them up.  He couldn't, because Cal was in his way, his arms still loosely draped over Grahame's hip and shoulder.  It was just to damned awkward, and his jaw clenched in frustration.

     Then Cal moved and simply hooked his arm under Grahame's knees.  He lifted Grahame's useless legs and helped position them so his uncle could lie flat.

     Grahame's cheeks and neck burned with humiliation, but as Cal moved into the bed to lie down next to him, he could see the boy's face held no expression.  No contempt, no disgust nor pity -- all those things Grahame had come to expect, all those things he had seen on the faces of others -- but not Cal's.  Cal had known Grahame all his life.  He wasn't 'the cripple,' he was just Uncle Grahame, and this was just a part of who he was.

     Cal settled on his side, pressing against Grahame.  One hand caressed his uncle's flank and stomach, idly heading lower.

     Grahame gripped his arms and pushed him over onto his back, rolling to lean over him.  His mouth descended on Cal's, hot and hungry.  Cal's skin was so warm, a fevered effect of the drugs.  Grahame pressed as much of his flesh to his nephew's as he could.

     He lowered his head to the boy's neck, kissing along under his jaw, rubbing the bristles of his beard against the tender skin.  His hands explored the planes and angles of Cal's body.  He worshipped the golden perfection with hand and mouth and tongue.  Drinking him in, devouring him with his eyes.  Cal relaxed under his ministrations, soaking it up like Adonis accepting tribute.

      _Perfect smile, chiseled bod; captain of the football squad...._   Cal may or may not have been Reed's progeny, but he was just the same; that same body, that same golden hair, crystal eyes, and winning smile.

     Grahame rolled the unresisting boy up on his side and pressed close.  Cal let out a quiet moan as Grahame prepared him.  Then another as their bodies joined.

     Grahame's thighs, hips, and back protested this unaccustomed activity, but it mattered little.  At last, _at last_ , he could possess the body he had always coveted.  So strong, so beautiful.  His hand stroked his nephew's torso, his chest, his belly.

     He reached lower and felt a small pang of disappointment that Cal wasn't responding as he had hoped (fantasized, really).  No matter.  One brief flash of ecstasy....

     With a groan, he emptied himself, drawing another noise from Cal's throat.  Then he  lay back, panting, his heart thumping at his ribs, his thighs, buttocks, and back muscles aching, his ears ringing with the rush of blood through his head.  At last he understood how Reed could hump his way through a massive coronary.  This... this transcended feeble, grey, unfulfilling life.

     Warmth suffused Grahame's body, spreading through his extremities.  Yes, even those useless twigs, or at least he imagined so.  His eyes drifted near-closed as he relaxed in his satiation.

     His mind didn't allow him to rest long.  _Cal couldn't stay here,_ it nagged at him.  What if someone saw him staggering out of Grahame's room, half naked, in the morning?

     He turned his head.  Cal was lying on his back, one hand draped lightly over his chest.  He wasn't asleep; Grahame could see a crescent of eyewhite gleaming between slack lids.  He was just blissed-out on the drugs.  Or, if Grahame wanted to play fanciful mind games, on the sex.

      _No_ , he chided himself, _That would be you_.

     He felt charged, alive.  Renewed for the long, hard, upcoming campaign.  He still had it in him to flense the competition, chair or no chair.  Hell, he felt strong enough to get his crutches back out.

     Nothing could stop him.  Grahame sighed and closed his eyes.

     Not as long as he had his fix.  
  


 

**Author's Note:**

> Technical note:
> 
> I was experimenting with dual POV. Did it work okay, or was it confusing/jarring?


End file.
